


Springtime in Winter

by orphan_account



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody ever really gave Edgar <i>the talk</i>, but he manages to figure the important stuff out with a little bit of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Springtime in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This is so cheesy and stupid omg but I needed to write something cheesy and stupid as a coping mechanism for how badly this movie ruined me. This fic was supposed to be just a short little snippet like my other Snowpiercer fic, but it accidentally rolled into like 4k words oops.

“You sure that thing doesn't hurt?”

“Christ, Edgar,” Curtis huffs, “For the last time: _No_. It's just a scar.”

Edgar slides just a little bit closer behind Curtis, perching his chin on the rough material covering a wide shoulder. Sure enough, Curtis is thumbing at the gnarled flesh on his forearm. Curtis always scratches at it like he wants to tear the scar away, and maybe the rest of his arm in the process. Edgar assumes Curtis thinks it's ugly. It's not, though. Not next to everything else in the tail section.

In fact, Edgar thinks Curtis is the least ugly thing in the whole train.

“Come on, man, you don't have to claw at it,” Edgar says, and Curtis pulls his sleeve down. “Looks a bit badass, you know?”

Wrong thing to say, apparently, because Curtis is on his feet in a second. Edgar stumbles back a bit, masking any hurt he feels with a sardonic guffaw.

“Yeah, just shove the little guy over,” Edgar says, following close behind Curtis.

“Maybe if you didn't hold on to me like a monkey,” Curtis says, long legs carrying him quickly down the car.

“The fuck's a monkey?” Edgar asks, all childish curiosity wrapped up in vulgarity. Curtis almost smiles before looking grim again.

“Little hairy things,” he says, “Like to climb all around and cling to each other's backs.”

“Sounds more like Grey,” Edgar says, hoping Grey isn't around to hear.

“Grey doesn't cling to people like you do,” Curtis argues.

“Clings to Gilliam, alright.”  
  
“We all cling to Gilliam,” Curtis says, and Edgar can't disagree with him.

-

It's no secret that Edgar and Curtis have problems. Everybody in the tail section has problems. But with Edgar and Curtis, their problem is each other.

To be fair, Edgar's dirty mouth and loud opinions could grate on anybody. But he doesn't want to grate on Curtis, and Edgar doesn't understand just what it is that sets Curtis off. It doesn't much matter, either, because at the end of the day it's Edgar that Curtis is dragging around as his second. Sometimes, Edgar likes to mouth off just a little too much, just to have Curtis's attention fully on him.

Which takes us to Edgar's problem. He doesn't want to call himself _clingy_ , but that's just what he is. Curtis is right, he clings. He clings _hard_. No matter where they are, whether there are guns in their faces or Timmy darting around their legs, Edgar is always attached to Curtis's side like a loving foul-mouthed parasite.

Curtis always tells him to back off, get a hobby, find a girlfriend, but Edgar doesn't want to do any of that. He's always liked Curtis, like the way his voice sounded as they grumbled between their bunks at night, like the way his face would soften when he was talking to the kids on the train.

Speaking of the kids, there are about three of them screeching down the center of the car. They're jumping over wires and pipes and legs and canes and _Jesus Christ_ , everything here is a tripping hazard.

“Hey, slow down!” Edgar barks, but it's too late. Timmy tanks it, falling heavily against the dirty car floor.

Edgar shoots up from where he was perched on his bunk, ready to make sure nobody died or broke anything. A small crowd quickly gathers around the kids, Tanya and Andrew and José and Curtis, _shit_ , where did Curtis pop out of? Timmy's crying and Tanya is shushing him, pulling him into her lap and rubbing his back.

Edgar is content to hang back and watch, until a warm breath tickles his ear.

“Augh, fuck!” Edgar flails wildly, trying to ward off his mysterious assailant. Grey, _of course_ it's fucking Grey, casually leans away from the flurry of limbs like it's just another day.

“Fuck, man, would it kill you to rattle the pipes a little when you creep around like that?” Edgar says, trying to keep his voice down. “Nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack!”

Grey's eyebrows arch and his mouth quirks in a way that conveys more subtle attitude than any words ever could.

“Well, can I help you or something?” Edgar asks, a little nettled from having nearly shat his pants.

Grey doesn't move for a while. He glances at the circle of children and parents with a look in his eye that makes Edgar think he's dissecting the scene in his head, breaking everybody's interactions down into cause and effect. He's younger than Edgar, but there's something about him that makes him seem older, like he knows shit about how the world works that Edgar won't ever understand. Maybe it's all the time he spends with Gilliam, some of that sage-like wisdom bled into Grey through proximity osmosis.

Suddenly, Grey snaps his head around to look at Edgar. He brings three fingers up to his own mouth, pressing them there for a moment. And then he reaches forward, fingers perfectly straight, and presses the same three fingertips to Edgar's lips. Wide-eyed, Edgar slowly leans his head away.

“Sorry, man,” he says, and Grey's arm is still extended, “But I don't think I'm gonna be kissing you.”

Grey's eyelids droop for a second like Edgar isn't even worth a real eye roll. Then his outstretched hand turns, and he folds two of the three fingers. He's pointing down the train car, and Edgar has to take a breath before he turns his head to look.

“Can't say I want to kiss José much, either,” Edgar says, and looks the other way.

Grey gives him an impatient look, lips drawing tight like he's disappointed. He moves his hand back to Edgar's face and grasps his chin, fingers digging in just hard enough to make it clear that he's not fucking around. Grey turn's Edgar's head back in Curtis's direction.

Timmy is sitting on José's bunk, sniffling softly. Tanya has an arm wrapped around him, fiercely protective, and he doesn't wriggle away from her like Edgar had when he was little. Curtis is kneeling there, holding a rag over the skinned knee.  There's a bigass grin on his face when he looks at Timmy. He looks so damn _fatherly_ that Edgar suddenly feels a bitter stab of something close to envy. It's been too long since Curtis looked at him like that, like he was a normal kid worth being proud of.

Edgar doesn't know what normal kids were supposed to do outside. Tanya looks at him and frowns sometimes, talks about how she shouldn't be thinking of a sixteen year old as an adult. Mourns his childhood, some shit like that. There are more important things to mourn, like the giant fucking ice ball they're stuck on, or the fact that nobody in the tail section has had potatoes for at least three years.

Curtis glances down the train car, and Edgar realizes he's been staring. Grey has disappeared, just as quietly as he came. Curtis meets Edgar's eyes in a moment so fleeting that it can't amount to anything real. When Curtis finally gets up and moves farther down the car, Edgar stands and walks over to Tanya and Timmy.

“Hey, you little numpty” Edgar says, gently knocking his knuckles against Timmy's forehead in a mock punch. Timmy scrunches his nose up at Edgar. “Trying to bust your head open?”

“Oh,” Tanya sighs, “He'll be fine. Just a little spill.”

Edgar hovers a moment, ruffling Timmy's hair. “Hey Tanya,” he starts, “What's a monkey?”

“You don't know what a monkey is?” Tanya asks, chuckling. “Shit, I haven't thought about monkeys in a while.”

“Should I know about them?”

“They were these little animals,” Tanya explains. “Lived in trees and ate bananas.”

“But were they, like,” Edgar pauses, squinting a bit when he asks, “Annoying? Clingy?”

“Oh, honey,” Tanya says, smiling. “Monkeys were cute.”

_Cute?_

“Curtis says I'm like a monkey,” Edgar says, frowning. “Am I like a monkey?”

“Well you don't got the hair for it,” she says, rubbing at his scraggly stubble. Edgar smiles and ducks his head away. “But you're small and scrappy enough for it.”

“Monkeys were _scrappy_?” Edgar asks, eyebrows crawling higher.

“Mmhm,” Tanya nods, “Gotta be scrappy to stay alive when you're that small.”

Scrappy. Edgar can deal with scrappy. It means more here than _cute_ does, that's for fucking sure.

 _Cute_ might not hurt, though.

-

A week later and Edgar still doesn't know what the fuck Grey was on about, except he totally does. He does so hard that he has violent internal battles every time Curtis is within spitting distance, which is _always_.

At night, Edgar reaches up and clasps one of the rods forming Curtis's cot with a tight enough grip to make his forearm shake. He doesn't know why he's doing it, but it feels nice in a cathartic kind of way. If he pretends hard enough, he can feel the heat coming off of Curtis's body.

“You okay, Edgar?” Curtis finally asks. His voice is sleepy and heavy and so genuinely concerned that something inside of Edgar aches. When he's this tired, Curtis doesn't bother putting up any fronts.

“Yeah,” Edgar croaks. “Tired.”

“Then go to sleep,” Curtis says, as if that's actually some kind of helpful advice.

“Thanks, wiseass,” Edgar mutters, “Never fucking thought of trying that.”

Edgar hears Curtis wiggling around in his bunk, and suddenly there are gloved fingers running over his trembling knuckles. Edgar snatches his hand away like he's afraid, and then rolls onto his front like he's hiding. Curtis sighs above him, and Edgar is scared that he fucked something up.

There's relative silence for a while, if you can ignore the hacking coughs and gentle mumbling coming from all around the car. Thankfully Edgar's gotten good at doing that after sixteen years.

When he thinks Curtis has fallen asleep, he musters the courage to move enough to reach up and rub his lips, mulling over what Grey was doing. What Grey was _implying_. Edgar never thought of kissing many people, because people don't just go around kissing each other back here. But if he had to pick someone to kiss?

Before he can tighten the reins on his consciousness, he's imagining kissing Curtis. He's imagining horrible things like beard-burn and teeth clacking. And suddenly those things start to sound okay somehow, like Curtis rubbing that giant scratchy face rug on his neck and leaving red bite marks all over Edgar's filthy skin.

It's fucked up in a way, because Curtis has been an adult for as long as Edgar can remember.  Not like a _dad_ , no, because every man in the tail section was like a dad.  Except Curtis, brash Curtis, blunt Curtis, Curtis who treated Edgar like glass until Edgar learned how to wield the word _fuck_.  From that point on, Curtis was more like a vitriolic big brother, and shit, that's still kind of fucked up.

Edgar never got to know a lot of things, like what having a real family was supposed to be like.  But as he desperately tries to rationalize the onslaught of thoughts about making out with a thirty-something year old bloke, he starts to learn about something new: Desire.  He really fucking wants to kiss Curtis.  He wants to straddle Curtis and get him to make noises, see how deep his voice can go.  He wants to prove to those front section arseholes that people are alive back here, that hearts are beating and blood is flowing and it's going to take more than some pansies in riot gear to pry him away from Curtis.

Then, almost without realizing he's doing it, Edgar starts grinding his hips down against the uncomfortable bullshit that constitutes as a bunk, and realizes he's well and truly _fucked_.

-

Edgar is kind of horrified at himself for a while. Every time he looks at Curtis, he feels like he's burning up. This must be the Hell some of the old folks in the tail section talk about.

That doesn't stop him from rubbing at himself every other night and making things indefinitely worse.

Meeting Curtis's eye makes him feel dirty. Meeting Grey's eye makes him feel angry. This is all that perceptive little fucker's fault.

“Hey Grey,” he says one day, so quietly he thinks Grey might not be able to hear him over the noise of the train car, “Can you do some of that mind reading shit or something? Know stuff about me I don't even know?”

Grey responds in his usual unhelpful manner, staring into Edgar's eyes with a sharp intensity that's almost too overbearing. Edgar glances away.

“Alright buddy, that was _mostly_ a rhetorical question,” he says, “But I wouldn't mind an affirmative or a negative.”

In response, Grey just points at Edgar and covers his eyes. Edgar is a little offended.

“ _I'm_ blind?” Edgar asks, jabbing himself in the chest. “Nah, man, _you're_ blind.”

Grey shakes his head and moves behind Edgar, pressing them close together. Grey's hand winds around Edgar's body, ignoring the embarrassed writhing, and falls flat-palmed over Edgar's heart. The way Grey's head leans on Edgar's shoulder presses their cheeks together.

It's close, way too close, and a bit uncomfortable. Edgar's heart is pounding under Grey's hand.

“Um,” Edgar says. There's no smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue, no caustic ranting begging to break free, just pure white nothingness in his head. Someone has finally done it, someone has managed to get Edgar to shut the fuck up, praise be.

Grey is warm, and his breathing is calming. Edgar feels so hot he thinks he could survive outside, melt all the snow and finally get everyone off this fucking train. Before he can reach into the recesses of his mind for an escape plan, an alarm shrieks through the tail section. A head check, fuck, Edgar would never expect to be grateful for a head check.

Except, when Grey disentangles himself and skitters off, Edgar feels irritation creeping up over his shoulders to sink into his temples. He wants to drag Grey back and make him hold on a little longer, press his hand over Edgar's heart just a little harder. Maybe with a bit more time, Edgar would be able to understand why he felt so warm, so much like he did at night when he thought about Curtis.

Shit, maybe he _does_ want to kiss Grey.

Before that thought can go any farther, Edgar is at the front of the car. He somehow finds himself at Curtis's side, like always. He bitches up a storm under his breath and Curtis tries to get him to shut up before one of the guards hears and breaks Edgar's face. So it's nice that he cares about that at least.

Head check is mostly uneventful. Nobody dies, or breaks anything, or has anything cut off. Everybody lines up and grabs their protein blocks like they have every other day of every other year.

“Saw you cuddling with Grey earlier,” Curtis says when they wander back, smiling just a tiny bit. It's the closest thing to playful teasing Edgar's gotten out of him in a while.

“Yeah, he's well versed in the language of the body,” Edgar plays along. “Got me all Zen and shit.”  
  
Curtis snorts. “God knows you could use some Zen time.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Edgar grunts through a mouthful of protein block, “The man with a cane shoved up his arse is telling _me_ to get Zen. Fucking hilarious, that.”

“How is your hyperactive ass more calm than mine?” Curtis asks.

“What you call calm is actually just moody and stoic as fuck,” Edgar says, and his dumbass mouth decides now would be a good time to casually ask, “Have you ever kissed a boy before?”

“ _Jesus_ , Edgar,” Curtis mumbles, “Where did that come from? We've got more important things to worry about.”  
  
“So is that a 'No, I've never had the pleasure,' or a 'Yes, but I kissed the wrong man and it was too shite of an experience to relive'?”

“It was a 'Shut up, Edgar.'” Curtis says, like he thinks he's clever or something.

“Because, you know,” Edgar continues, unfazed, “If it's the second one I would gladly volunteer myself as a redo. Or the first one. Whatever.”

Curtis stops short, and Edgar nearly breaks his nose on Curtis's shoulder blade. Curtis turns around and says, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Haha, big joke,” Edgar says flatly, “No, really. What's there to lose, huh?”

Curtis huffs out a real killer of a sigh, rolling his eyes so hard it's like he's trying to force them out of his head.

“Come _on_ , man,” Edgar moves closer, trying to create the illusion that they're in their own little bubble. “Pretty please?”

“Fuck, Edgar,” Curtis turns away, nervously running his hand across his short hair. “We _are_ _not_ talking about this.”  
  
“Why the fuck not?” Edgar asks, loud enough that someone down the car tells him to shut up.

“You're just a kid,” Curtis says, and that's a cop-out if Edgar has ever heard one. “I'm too much older than you.”

“Like that matters,” Curtis spits. “Those crazy fucks could drag me off to the front of the train tomorrow to grind me up into a protein block for all we know.”

Curtis draws his hand up, pressing his fingers to his mouth like he's going to puke. His breath is loud and heavy as it washes over his knuckles. “This is bullshit. We're not talking about this here. Everybody can hear us.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” Edgar says, “I never got the chance to become acquainted with concepts like privacy before.”

Curtis huffs out a sigh, and Edgar wants to cuff him on the ear for not being able to give a straight answer for once in his life. “Well, I have. And let me tell you, Edgar, once you get used to something, it's hard to live without it.”

“It's been sixteen years. You gotta let some shit go,” Edgar argues. When Curtis shows no sign of responding, he adds, “Well, close the fucking curtain by your bunk so I can blow you in relative solitude then.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Curtis pinches his eyes shut and draws in a sharp breath. “Kissing. We were talking about _kissing_. You ever gonna drop this?”

“Curtis, man,” Edgar says, smiling through his frustration, “When have I ever dropped anything?”

Curtis rubs at his beard, eyeing Edgar warily. “ _Why_ , though?”

“Never had a kiss before,” Edgar shrugs. “Not really. I figure you're a good place to start.”

“Wait,” Curtis squeezes his eyes shut, like this conversation is physically paining him, “Never?”

“When the fuck would I go off and kiss someone that you wouldn't know about?”

“Well,” Curtis huffs, “I don't know what you do with your free time.”

“I follow you,” Edgar says, simple as that.

That stops Curtis, stemming the flood of objections until he's gaping tiredly at Edgar with nothing to say.

“Just one kiss,” Edgar pleads, “To see if I like it or not.”

“You won't,” Curtis promises. “I'm old and my face is hairy. Go kiss someone better, like Grey.”  
  
“You know, I was actually thinking about that,” Edgar says, savoring the way Curtis's eyes widen. “But I think I'd rather try you, thanks.”

“Goddammit, Edgar,” Curtis grumbles. He leans close to Edgar, maybe to bitch at him and maybe to kiss him, but a hand on his shoulder stops him from completing the motion before Edgar can find out.

“Curtis, lend a hand?” Andrew cuts, and Curtis turns fully away from Edgar to answer.

“Yeah, what's the problem?”

Edgar huffs, running a hand through his hair. This is getting him nowhere, not a single yes or no, just _right_ and _wrong_ bullshit. He's got to change his tactics.

So in a moment of mild lunacy, Edgar flings himself forward. He grabs Curtis's face and plants one solid kiss right on his mouth. Curtis goes still, bringing his hands up to grip Edgar's forearms. It's kind of a shitty kiss, more like a headbutt really, but faces are crammed together and mouthes are touching so Edgar can't complain.

It's over in a blink, and Edgar feels like sixteen years worth of shitty protein blocks in his stomach are starting to rebel. Andrew looks more perplexed than surprised or offended. Curtis probably looks pissed. Edgar doesn't have the chance to sneak a glance at his face before fleeing.

-

Avoiding someone is literally impossible in the tail section. Unless you're Grey, he could probably manage it. But Edgar isn't Grey, that's for fucking sure.

Not even two hours later, Curtis wanders over to where Edgar is lying down in his bunk. He stops like he's going to crawl up into his own cot, but lingers just a little too long. Edgar swings his legs around to sit up.

“Finish your duties of dauntless heroism?” Edgar asks, and it's easier than he expects to get his words out.

“Yeah,” Curtis says, falling heavily beside Edgar. “Holding Andrew's bunk still so he could replace some of the bolts was back-breaking work, alright.”

“Fucking harrowing, it sounds,” Edgar says. He's failed to meet Curtis's eyes once.

“Yeah, at this rate, I'll have us to the front section in no time,” Curtis says. It's a joke, but it falls like lead between them.

“Sorry for, you know, jumping you,” Edgar says, because avoiding it is just making him tense. “I guess that was a tad rude.”

“You're a baby,” Curtis says. “You know that?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Edgar says, finally looking at Curtis. There's no real heat lighting up his words. “You're the one who's afraid of a little kiss.”

“No, no,” Curtis says, and he almost sounds like he's laughing. “I mean, you're so young. I forget how young you are. When I was your age, I was trying not to flunk out of chemistry class.”

Edgar snorts. “Slow down, Curtis. You're not exactly the wise man of the village quite yet.”

“Still plenty older than you,” Curtis says, and he sounds sad.

“Now, not that I know shit,” Edgar starts, “But I think you're looking at this all wrong, man. I'll never take a chemistry class or whatever. I'll never stand outside and bask in the sun long enough to get a nice tan. I'll never know what the fuck a monkey _actually_ acts like –”

“You don't know any of that, Edgar,” Curtis grunts, like it's annoying that Edgar even dares to point out the reality of the situation.

“No, shut the fuck up,” Edgar says, “Let me finish. Point is, I don't think you can treat me like I'm a sixteen year old out there. I don't know – maybe you're right and I'm just some stupid fucking kid. But after the shit I've seen and said and done, I don't –”

Edgar freezes, because Curtis's hand is creeping up his spine. It rests on his neck, squeezing gently. Edgar tries to breathe, which starts to feel impossible when he looks up and sees that Curtis's face isn't tight and angry like usual. It's softer, still grim, but closer to the look he gives everyone else in the train when he's having a nice day.

A kiss on the forehead is about the last thing Edgar expects, so of course that's what Curtis goes for. Edgar feels dizzy at the brush of dry lips pressed against his skin, gasps the scratchy texture of Curtis's stupid beard tickling the bridge of his nose.

There are people _everywhere_ , Edgar thinks. And then he remembers Andrew's near-apathy at watching Edgar plant one on Curtis, and he realizes that most of them probably couldn't give less of a fuck.

So Edgar lifts his head, letting Curtis's beard drag along his nose, and kisses Curtis's mouth so softly that it hardly counts. It feels like Grey pressed behind him with his hand over Edgar's heart. It feels like overwhelming warmth in an ice-cold world.

Curtis has to ruin the moment with his infinite wisdom muttered against Edgar's mouth, “You don't understand how fucked up this is, do you?”  
  
“ _Curtis_ , my friend,” Edgar groans, “The world is dead and frozen over. We're riding a train in circles to survive. I'm still not sure I know what the fuck a monkey is, even though that's apparently supposed to be common knowledge.”

Edgar turns his head into Curtis's neck and sighs, loving that he can feel the way Curtis's Adam's apple bobs. He's loving the beard-burn on his forehead a little less, but he'll take whatever he can get.

“Everything's fucked up,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand along Curtis's forearm where he knows that gnarled scar is. Curtis curls one hand on top of his head and puts the other one on his neck to pull him closer. It's almost a hug. “I think we can let this one thing slide, yeah?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Curtis says, and then they both shut up for a minute. There are people going about their business, coughing and snoring and smiling through the rust and filth. Andy bounds past them, orange curls bouncing with every step. All's well in the tail section, if you discount all of the sickness and stagnation and poverty suffocating the residents worse than the snow outside.

But for now, with Curtis's two arms draped around him? Well, Edgar doesn't have a whole lot of complaints.


End file.
